EndWar: Counter Strike
by Keggers
Summary: I know I know it's not out yet. This is based in the EndWar universe and at the same time my own. And yes it is based after the events of the first trailer. Rating is liable to change. This is not a counter strike X over. Please R&R first fan fic ever
1. Chapter 1: Firehawk

**Chapter One: Firehawk**

The lazy mid-afternoon sunshine beat down on San Pedro. The fighting had been going on for three days straight and without the noise that had resounded through the city for the whole duration of it, the place seemed eerily quiet. Struggling to keep consciousness, Sergeant Dan Mitchell noticed this and laughed to himself. He found it funny that even now while he could barely breath, he noticed such things. Pushing onwards he resisted the temptation to give in to gravity and collapse onto the extremely inviting tarmac of the road. Once more he tried the cross-com.

"This is Ghost leader three can anyone hear me?" As a reply all he got was static and background distortion. Separated from his team, he would have to keep going North east to where he thought the JSF lines would be. What had happened to the cross-com and why had the fighting stopped? Had they won? Had they lost? He was completely blind to what was going on in the greater battle without the cross-com but for some reason it refused to work. His visor picked up movement to his right and he immediately turned to face it bringing his XM8 to bear. Alert and ready to open up at the faintest sign of enemy activity he advanced towards the area that the danger was coming from. From behind a pile of trash cans emerged a nothing more than a mangy stray cat.

He sighed at least there was nothing wrong with his HUD. Lowering his weapon he trudged on hoping that he would soon find some kind of sign of JSF activity.

Mitchell soon found what he was looking for. It wasn't what he had hoped. There in the middle of a square was a downed RAH 66-comanche. Its tail propeller had taken a direct hit had it looked as if the pilot had lost control. He moved cautiously towards the cockpit weapon at the ready. The wreck had been there for at least two days (or so his HUD told him) and the danger was minimal.

He didn't know what he hoped to achieve but it was worth a look. Cautiously he approached the cockpit, the canopy and several impact marks from where bullets had been deflected of it's bullet proof shell. "How the hell am I supposed to get into this thing?" Mitchell muttered to himself. After some searching he found the emergency canopy release, Mitchell, having seen this done before from a distance, braced himself and yanked it as hard as he could.

The canopy released explosively, since the chopper had been almost upside down when Mitchell pulled the release the twenty-thousand dollar piece of bullet proof glass deflected off the ground and flew into the air. Such was the force of the ejection Mitchell was almost flung several meters in the opposite direction. Fortunately he had somewhat expected it and jumped as the same moment the canopy had blown, meaning that he escaped the huge force that it generated.

Despite this he had not thought the maneuver the whole way through and landed awkwardly meaning that he could not stay on his feet. He found himself on his back staring up at the sky wishing he hadn't been so hasty. He then struggled to his feet trying to resist the temptation to pass out. He recovered his weapon and slung it over his shoulder, he then drew his sidearm. It was an M9 not as accurate or as powerful as some of the newer models that preferred, but it was all that he could get his hands on before they had moved out. Not that it mattered, it would do it's job. He moved quickly yet quietly up to the side of the wrecked chopper. In a swift a motion as he could manage, he swung himself into the cockpit of the wreck. The scene on the inside was much, much more depressing than the one on the exterior of the aircraft.

Still strapped in their harnesses were the pilot and gunner. They were still wearing their bulky flight helmets meaning that he couldn't see the pilots upper face. It was a sight that Mitchell was all too familiar with these days. He sighed. A sight he thought, he had gotten far to used to. If his HUD was telling him the truth then these guy were long dead. He was about to continue searching the cockpit for a radio, when, as an after thought he took the dog tags of the gunner. The name of the gunner he did not recognize one Sergeant Matt Oakly. What he did recognize was the name engraved on the back of one of the tags. _Firehawk. _He knew the name he also knew that comanche crew put the name of their chopper on their tags. Why did he recognize that name?

It stuck out in his mind so clearly. He repeated the name aloud to himself over and over. "Firehawk, Firehawk, Fireha-." He remembered suddenly where he had heard the name before. The epiphany hit him like a brick wall. He reached slowly over to take the dog tags of the pilot. As he did, he prayed that he was wrong. Unfortunately, he wasn't. On the dog tag was a name he knew well. Mitchell felt as if he was going to be sick. He couldn't accept it. He needed to see for himself. His movements even more sluggish he urged he shaking hand to onto the helmet of the pilot. His fingers were almost unable to undo the straps that fastened the helmet on. He removed not wanting to look, it felt like it took an age yet the answer came all to soon. Under the helmet was his best friend and brother, John Mitchell.


	2. Chapter 2: President Fisher

**Chapter Two: President Fisher **

High Commander Scott Mitchell started at an electronic map of the world. Most of Europe was in Russian control and Paris was now no more than a pile of ruble in which nothing lived. Of the sixty-thousand men posted in Paris there was fifteen-thousand survivors. They had been ordered to retreat out of Paris before the kinetic strike had hit. At that moment they were fortifying what was left of the city in an attempt to prepare for the inevitable Russian counter attack. The Russians had taken a huge hit from the kinetic strike, with projected causalities at ninety-six percent, it would do no more than slow them down, for now. That wasn't the end to his troubles, not by a long shot. In the early hours of the morning an unfortunate aide had crept in and whispered to his not yet fully woken self that forces fighting in San Pedro had pulled back, not just loosing the city but stranding hundreds of soldiers fighting on the front line in the process. This cock-up also meant that there would have to be a rescue mission and counter attack launched before the EF could consolidate it's position. This would take man power that he couldn't spare and days of planing which the stranded men didn't have. He sank into a deep train of thought. There was not much he could do. His first and foremost concern would be getting those men out of San Pedro before it was too late. Paris would not hold with a ragged and beaten bunch of largely under stocked men. The cross-com was for the most part, down so communication in and out of either cities was extremely difficult at the very least. At that moment Mitchell was interrupted by yet another unwitting aide. "What?" Mitchell said irritably. "President Fisher is on the line for you." The aide seemed to shrink under Mitchell's glare.

"Patch him through." He said.

"Scott, we're in a hell of a shit storm here." Mitchell got on quite well with the president. He understood the military, unlike some of the presidents before him, this guy didn't think that he could bark some orders at the guys with guns and expect them to get it done.

"I know sir, the situation has snowballed big time." It wasn't much of an answer, but was the best that he could muster.

ÒI need a sit rep Scott a, _real _answer." The president was right. Mitchell took a deep breath.

"This is how it stands in Europe. Twelve hours ago General Smith, the man in charge of the defense of Paris armed and launched a weapon known as a kinetic strike. This weapon not only destroyed most of Paris it inflicted huge causalities on marauding Russian forces. Since they had not been expecting us to employ a weapon of that magnitude their forces were at a very high density when the device struck. Resulting death total of enemy forces stands at ninety six percent of the Russian forces."

"What of civilian loses?" The president seemed anxious.

"Currently we have no way of guessing how many civilians were in Paris at the time of the strike. The lack of activity of the civilian population would suggest that they were either evacuated or keeping low until the battle was resolved. An optimistic estimate would be a casualty rate of forty-five to fifty percent of all remaining civilians."

"This is unacceptable Scott! Don't try to blow rainbows up my ass with this 'optimistic estimate' shit what kind of causality rate are we really looking at?"

"To be honest sir I have no idea but if I were to hazard an estimate from personal experiences with kinetics, I'd say it's more like seventy to eighty percent." The president was speechless he didn't know whether to start shouting at Mitchell for something he didn't do or let him continue with his briefing. The president chose the second of the two options.

Taking a deep breath he said "Continue Scott."

"I'm diverting troops from Orlenans to help with it's defense. We're hoping that the Russians will rush into an unplanned counter attack in which case we will destroy their depleted forces."

"Depleted? How do you know the Russian forces are depleted?"

"Well sir apart from estimates, calculations and all that crap I am using a little something called common sense." Mitchell hoped that the president wouldn't take the sarcasm badly.

"Okay Mitchell I see your point there's no need to be sarcastic, enough about Paris what is this I have been hearing about San Pedro?"

"At around four o'clock this morning I was informed by one of my aides that the General commanding the fighting in San Pedro had given an order to retreat."

"Who issued that order Mitchell? I need to know." The president's voice was borderline between concern and fury.

"Sources working close to the General say it was him who gave the order to retreat once he had heard that EF forces had come within two kilometers of his position."

"Name?" The president said curtly.

"General Tailor, Martin Tailor." Mitchell had no problem telling the president Tailor's name, the man was a coward and a bastard who didn't deserve to a second chance. For that matter he never deserved a first one but before Mitchell had taken command someone 'upstairs' had decided to give little Martin a chance.

"I want him stripped of his rank and brought before a Military court and I want it done today Scott you understand me?!" The president had finally let his temper break through.

"I understand sir."

"Continue with your briefing Mitchell." Mitchell didn't know where the president got his temper from or where he put it once he got control again and if he was honest with himself, he didn't want to.

"As it stands we have nine hundred stranded men and seven armored units of varying class and capability stranded on the front line in San Pedro."

"I know what kind of situation you're in now Mitchell, I also realize it's not an easy one to be in but I want those men out of their do you understand me?!"

"Yes sir, I understand. The only viable option I see is to launch a counter attack to retake the city and save those men all at once."

"How long had the fighting been going on in San Pedro?" Inquired the president.

"Thr- three days sir." Mitchell now knew how far fetched the plan sounded.

"So your saying your going to retake a city that you could only just hold on to in the first place with less men than you had originally?" The president had Mitchell in a tough spot but that wouldn't stop him.

"Yes sir." Mitchell said defiantly.

"How do you suggest that?"

"Because 'sir' I will be commanding them." Said Mitchell from his mobile command center that was at that moment ploughing through the Spanish country side straight for San Pedro.


End file.
